


The Essence of Belonging

by poselikeateam



Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bruxae (The Witcher), First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Jaskier | Dandelion, Scent Marking, Scenting, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Jaskier has been marking Geralt with his scent so that other vampires know not to touch him. Geralt likes wearing his bard’s scent, but doesn’t realise that it’s intentional.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754371
Comments: 32
Kudos: 1417
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, Just.... So cute...





	The Essence of Belonging

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to be uploading some chaptered fics again soon, but for today here’s a oneshot instead while I finish getting those in order

Jaskier has always been very protective over what’s his. Perhaps his own near-invincibility has made him painfully aware of how fragile and ephemeral the things and people around him can be. 

He would never describe Geralt as fragile, of course. Aside from the fact that the man is built like a brick shit house, there’s the teensy, tiny point of him being a _fucking witcher_. He was, frankly, built to last. Geralt can take a beating like nobody’s business, heals lightning-fast, is honestly just incredible. Still, he is Jaskier’s witcher, just as Jaskier is his bard.

Honestly, Jaskier isn’t entirely sure if Geralt knows what he is. He hasn’t made any indication that he knows, but getting Geralt to talk about something is about as easy as pulling a katakan’s fangs. Actually, between the two options, he’d rather take the katakan. It’s rare for Geralt to comment on something if he doesn’t feel he needs to, is the point. Even if he does know, Jaskier is pretty sure he isn’t going to catch on to what he’s been doing.

When something or someone is important to him, he can be a bit… possessive. He needs them to be protected, and for everyone to know that they are _his_. Admittedly, he can be pretty territorial, but who amongst his kind isn’t? He doesn’t stake his claim in old tombs or crumbling castles or living thralls, though. He is territorial, but he doesn’t claim any territory, lives a rather transient lifestyle, all things considered. No, his territory has always been his songs and his lute — and, more recently, his witcher.

Because, see, while Geralt may be sturdy, he isn’t _invincible_. And in his profession, if he isn’t throwing himself at danger, he isn’t actually working. Yes, Jaskier knows that he can handle himself, but that doesn’t quiet the beast inside him that _roars_ whenever Geralt comes back to him injured after a hunt.

The important thing is that he _does_ come back. If he didn’t…

No. Jaskier isn’t going to allow himself to think about that. Sometimes he almost does — his mind tries to go there on its own, but he will not allow it. Geralt is _his_ witcher, and he _always_ protects what is his. His songs, his lute, his witcher.

If Geralt knew that Jaskier was scent-marking him to tell other vampires that he is _off limits_ , Jaskier is pretty sure he would have mentioned it by now. And maybe he feels a little guilty, marking Geralt as his without ever bringing it up first, but it’s the only way to quell the instincts screaming at him to _mark_ and _claim_ without actually _biting_ him.

A vampire’s scent comes from their bite. It’s something to do with their saliva, or some kind of venom (if that’s the right word — he doesn’t have a better one, anyway, so venom will have to do) they produce, depending on the type of vampire. For higher vampires like himself, it’s both. He can’t produce the proper scent without sinking his fangs into something, so he has to get… creative.

Specifically, he has a few strips of leather that he’s folded together to make them thick enough to fully sink his fangs into. He has to time it right, of course — if Geralt is too close when he does it, his medallion will probably pick up when he shifts forms, even if it’s only enough to draw his fangs out. So, he waits until his witcher goes off on a hunt — it’s easy enough, since the man doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word _rest_. By time Geralt comes back to their room, he has a good number of hair ties that are _drowning_ in his scent. He can’t keep his witcher safe from everything, but he can at least let other vampires know to back the fuck off.

**

Geralt is fully aware of how possessive Jaskier can be. It’s sort of endearing, really, though he’d never admit it out loud — the bard’s ego is big enough, thank you. 

The thing is, if something is important to that man, he makes it _very_ clear that it is _his_. When he was an up-and-coming bard, for example, before he essentially became a household name, another young man had tried to take credit for one of his songs. Geralt doesn’t remember which song, but he _does_ remember what Jaskier did to the poor boy _very_ vividly. He’d pretended to be an admirer, gotten close, and then broken the other bard’s fingers. It was alarming, in large part because Geralt had never seen Jaskier so _angry_ before, and honestly hadn’t even known he was capable of something like that.

Although, no one tried to claim that song ever again.

He knows that he shouldn’t be so pleased to be one of the things that Jaskier holds dear, but it’s such a short list, and he can’t deny that being _wanted_ like that is… nice. It’s a good feeling. So, as with all good things, he doesn’t mention it for fear that it will go away when he makes note of it. 

Still, he knows the way that Jaskier lingers close to him in public is intentional, different from the closeness they share on the road. He knows that the bard wants to leave his mark on him, and he’s fine with that. That’s why he lets Jaskier do up his hair. 

It makes him look so _pleased_ when he’s allowed to tie Geralt’s hair back. The style doesn’t seem to matter, so long as it’s tied back in some way with these leather strips that smell very much like the bard. Geralt thinks it must be some kind of token, perhaps important because Jaskier has gotten it for him. He doesn’t look at them, but sometimes he does reach back and run his fingers over the tie in his hair because it feels nice, to know that someone cares enough to mark him as theirs. It’s even better that it’s Jaskier. And maybe the bard doesn’t realise just how strong his scent is on these hair ties of his, but Geralt does, and that scent is admittedly a comfort when they’re apart.

Of course, it can also be a distraction. Right now is a prime example. He is in a crypt, searching for some family heirloom that, apparently, had been left behind when his employer came to visit last, only to find that the place was infested with ghouls. So, of course, he had been prepared for the ghouls and dispatched them with relative ease. On the other hand, this is Geralt, so of course events found a way to go to shit. 

Honestly, he had been distracted by Jaskier’s scent on his hair tie, and he had gotten rid of the last of the ghouls, so he didn’t _expect_ to find anything else; thus, he’d sheathed his silver sword and was about to search for the item he was sent here to find—

And his medallion had started to vibrate.

Apparently, a group of bruxae have been living further in the crypt. He supposes they’d been drawn out by the sound of fighting, or the smell of blood. Whatever the reason, he had allowed himself to get distracted, and it has brought him to this; he is now surrounded by bruxae.

It’s not an ideal situation to be in, he’ll admit. He _could_ make it out of this, if he’s smart about it. There’s no time to take another potion. If he’s lucky, he can throw a silver dagger into one, maybe two of them, but they’re behind him too. His chances aren’t very good, and he needs to decide what to do while he still has the time—

Only, he quickly becomes distracted _again_ by the peculiar behaviour of the bruxae. A few of them are screeching at each other — it looks like they’re arguing in their strange language — and he is so absorbed by that that one manages to lunge at him. He starts casting Quen, hoping that he can get it off in time, but before he can another of the vampires is ramming into the one that’s attacking him, tearing its throat out.

What the _fuck_? Why would a bruxa kill one of her sisters to protect a witcher? None of this is making any _sense_. 

“Witcher,” one of the bruxae says, getting his attention, “allow me to… speak with you.” Her voice is rough, likely not used to speaking Common, but she _is_ speaking to him. Negotiation is probably a better idea than a fight, at least for now. He can always draw his blade if things go south.

“Alright,” he says. He doesn’t know what to say, and hopes that she’ll take the lead in this conversation.

Visibly relaxing, she does. “Thanks to you. I am Vanya. I have proficiency in your Common Speech beyond that of my sisters. We do not wish to fight, for even if we were to win, it would spell our deaths.”

That’s… confusing. “What do you mean?” he can’t help but ask. 

She frowns at him and says, “If we were to lose in combat, we would be slain by you. If we were to win, we would be slain by him.”

“Him?”

Now, the vampire looks surprised. “Witcher,” she says, sounding as confused as he is, “you surely must know of your… significance? To have been claimed by a,” she screeches something, seemingly unable to recall the translation. 

“I don’t know what that means,” he admits. He doesn’t know if it’s safe to admit this ignorance, but they seem too afraid of… whatever it is that they’re afraid of, to try attacking him.

“You are… _protected_. Off of the limits, I believe is the saying? How do I phrase… A moment, please,” she says, and he allows it. After a few moments of deliberating with her sisters, with a few random words of Common thrown into their vampiric screeching, she turns back to the witcher. “You carry the scent of a Higher One.”

It takes a second and a half, maybe, to process this. Then, a lot of things start to make sense all at once. Still, he needs to be _sure_ before he leaves. Slowly, he reaches behind himself, and they all shrink back before realising that he is untying his hair. Holding out the leather strip that had held his hair back, he asks, “Is this the scent?”

She takes a small step forward, before taking two large steps back, apparently uncomfortable with the scent. “Yes,” she says. “The one who marked you is… powerful. Please tell him that we meant you no harm.”

He nods, ties his hair back quickly again. “Of course,” he says. 

“Forgive any impertinence,” Vanya says after a short pause, “but if you are willing to speak, am I correct to assume that you have not come for us?”

“I was here for the ghouls, and an amulet. I didn’t know this was your home as well,” he answers. 

One of the other bruxae chitters something to their delegate, who responds in kind. The group is no longer surrounding him, instead all huddled together. It looks like they’re talking about him amongst themselves. The ones he can see the faces of look relieved at whatever Vanya has said to them. 

“That is fortunate,” says Vanya. “I do not wish death for my sisters and I.”

“Why kill her, then?” he asks bluntly, gesturing to the body of the fallen bruxa.

Vanya hisses. “Alysse,” she spits. “She was… a rogue, a renegade. She had not the control that the rest of us can boast of. She did not understand our… situation. Under such circumstances, it is sensible to remove one to save the rest.”

“I understand,” he says. “I just need to find the amulet I came for, and then I’ll leave. If I find out that you’re hurting humans, though…” He lets the threat hang in the air.

“No, no,” Vanya says, “we are not! Only the… bandlets? Bangles? The filthy men, who come to steal from the dead, those are our meals.”

“Alright.” It’s a satisfying enough answer, for now. 

From there, it’s quick and easy. They bring him the amulet he’s come for — of course, he asks if they know of any regular visitors to the crypt, and when they describe his employer he breathes a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have taken the heirloom if it didn’t belong to the man who contracted him to retrieve it, but he does need the coin, so he’s glad that he hasn’t been lied to.

He gets his payment, and even a bonus, which is honestly even more surprising than a sudden parlay with a group of bruxae. Humans always try to cheat him out of coin, after all, so to be paid more than he was originally offered is almost unheard of. Still, he isn’t going to argue it. When he enters the inn that he and Jaskier are staying at, he’s in a rare good mood.

That is, until he remembers the conversation that he and Jaskier need to have.

Jaskier isn’t playing right now — small blessings, he supposes. Not that he doesn’t enjoy Jaskier’s music of course — despite what he’s said in the past, they both know that he does enjoy it, when it isn’t too overstimulating for his enhanced senses. No, it’s just that if he doesn’t bring this up now, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get up the nerve later.

It’s almost funny that he can get through a difficult fight without any real concern, but the thought of a difficult _conversation_ makes him almost _anxious_.

When Jaskier sees him, the bardling’s whole countenance lights up, before dimming a little at the look on Geralt’s face. In no time at all, Jaskier is at his side, pulling him up to their shared room by the hand. As he usually does, Geralt allows himself to be dragged by the other, but now he can’t help but think that he never _needed_ to. 

“That bastard didn’t say anything about vampires,” Jaskier hisses to himself as he shuts the door to their room. He looks at Geralt’s dishevelled hair with a rage that should _not_ be as attractive as it is. “If they touched _one fucking hair_ —”

“I’m fine,” he says immediately, “but we need to talk.”

**

It takes a moment for what Geralt has just said to sink in. He’ll admit that he wasn’t really properly listening — he was just so _angry_ at the thought that some upstart would try to touch what is obviously marked as _his_. The scent is faint, still overpowered by his own, but it lingers like a cheap perfume. 

But when Geralt says that he’s okay, Jaskier starts to relax a little. Not entirely, of course — honestly, Geralt is terrible at taking care of himself. Geralt’s version of _okay_ is very different from the rest of the world’s. It’s so frustrating, but it’s so very _Geralt_ that it almost loops back around to endearing. Well, after the fact, of course; in the moment, when Geralt is actually hurt and stupidly refusing to admit it, it’s just upsetting.

When Jaskier is sure that Geralt really is uninjured, he allows himself to relax for a moment until he processes the words ‘we need to talk’. He’s heard that before, a good number of times, and it has never gone well for him.

He takes a step back so that he can take in Geralt’s expression. It’s sort of pinched. He doesn’t look angry, just… uncomfortable. He isn’t honestly sure if that’s better.

“You? Wanting to talk?” he teases, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “That’s new.”

“I didn’t say anything about vampires,” Geralt says, not taking his bait. 

Well. Fuck.

Jaskier sighs. “No, darling, I suppose you didn’t. It’s obvious, though, isn’t it? Takes one to know one, and all that?”

Geralt hums, crosses his arms. He still doesn’t seem angry, so Jaskier is cautiously hopeful that this isn’t how things end between them.

“They were _very_ polite,” he says, not acknowledging Jaskier’s confession. (Is it a confession? He had been hopeful that Geralt already knew, after all. No, he can’t kid himself — it was definitely a confession.) “Wanted me to let you know they didn’t mean any harm.”

Good. His scent had worked, then, still carried weight. He still isn’t sure where Geralt is going with this, though, and that’s making him slightly anxious. “Well, that’s good to hear,” he answers warily.

“They were _terrified_ of your scent,” Geralt continues. The forced casual way he’s speaking is not doing anything for Jaskier’s nerves. So, forgive him for taking a moment to process that.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. He opens his mouth, shuts it. Swallows. He has no fucking idea what to say to that because, he cannot over-stress, he doesn’t know where Geralt is going with this. 

“You’ve been marking me,” Geralt says, raising one white brow. Oh. There it is. 

“Perhaps.”

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier. How can someone talk so much and say so little?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re a higher vampire. Apparently, immensely powerful, so probably old as well,” he says, ignoring the bard’s indignant squawk at being called ‘old’. “You’ve been scent marking me. There’s a lot to unpack here, bard, and you haven’t breathed a word of it.”

“Ah. Well. When you put it like that…” Jaskier sighs. “Yes, I suppose I haven’t been entirely… forthcoming.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt, somehow able to make a _hum_ sound sarcastic. 

“I just— Obviously, I’m not going to come out of the gate and _say it_ ,” he explains, trying to justify himself. “After a certain amount of time, I figured you’d piece it together — and if you didn’t, you’d just think I was being _deceptive_. And it’s so hard to get you to _talk_ about anything that I thought it was better to just leave it unsaid.”

When Geralt hums again, he sounds contemplative. Jaskier is thankful that his explanation is apparently deemed satisfactory, and he thinks this painfully awkward conversation is just about over, when Geralt says, “And the scent marking?”

Admittedly, it’s a little embarrassing, and Jaskier can feel his cheeks start to flush. “Yes, that,” he says rather lamely. “Like I said, I can’t get you to talk about things, especially _feelings_.”

“You’ve been claiming me,” he insists. 

“Forgive me for not thinking to explain my _instincts_ to you, Geralt,” the bard snaps. “You don’t talk about the awkward things _you_ do. Don’t deny it! I’ve noticed you scenting me, and how _pleased_ my scent in your hair makes you. You _like_ being claimed, witcher. You’ve never put words to it, because you’ve never thought to — so can you really blame me for doing the same?”

Geralt may not be able to blush, but the look on his face has the same effect. “Putting things to words has never been my strength,” he argues, “unlike a certain _bard_.”

“Well,” Jaskier bristles, “I’ll forgive you not realising that I’m a ploughing vampire, _witcher_ , if you forgive my momentary lapse in verbal communication.” 

“My job is to hunt monsters,” argues Geralt. “You are not a monster. A pain in the arse, yes, but that hardly counts.”

“Usually flattery will get you everywhere, dear, but in this case, you know that I am right.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t try to argue. Probably, he knows that he’ll lose. Quit while you’re ahead, and all that. It actually causes Jaskier to realise something jarring: the witcher isn’t angry. 

Jaskier has been claiming him, marking him as _his_ , and hadn’t said a word. Geralt of Rivia, the fucking _king_ of ‘I don’t want to need or be needed’, who deep down _craves_ belonging to someone but has always refused to admit it — he isn’t upset that Jaskier has essentially been broadcasting to the vampire world that Geralt _belongs_ to _him_. 

And maybe he’s never made the best decisions. For all his carefully constructed ballads, his famed silver tongue, when he isn’t putting on a façade he doesn’t _think_ before he talks. Around Geralt especially, he just sort of lets his thoughts fall out of his mouth in a steady stream of consciousness. Maybe that’s why his voice drops just a little bit lower as he pierces Geralt with an unwavering, shrewd gaze, and says, “You _are_ mine, you know.”

The witcher is able to keep his countenance mostly impassive, but Jaskier can hear the nearly imperceptible skip in his usually steady heart rate. He sees the way Geralt’s pupils dilate, ever so slightly. The bard licks his lips without being aware that he’s doing it, and continues. “You like being mine, I think. You want to belong to someone. To be protected, cared for.”

“I don’t _need_ to be protected,” protests the witcher.

Jaskier’s lips curl up in a self-assured smile. “No, you don’t,” he agrees easily, “but you _want_ to. You want someone to think you’re _worth_ protecting. And you are, my dear — you are _so_ worth protecting, _cherishing_.” At that, the witcher shudders, though only slightly — and Jaskier’s smile widens into a grin. “Ah,” he says, voice going just a touch lower. 

Emboldened by Geralt’s reactions thus far, he takes a step forward, then another. He moves slowly, but purposefully, without any sort of hesitation. It is almost a swagger, and in rare moments such as this, it is impossible to deny that Jaskier is, at his very core, a _predator_. 

Geralt, though — Geralt is not prey. Gods, no. Geralt is a predator the same as him. Where Jaskier is perhaps a leopard, a solitary hunter that stays away from its own kind, Geralt is truly a wolf. Wolves need a pack. Jaskier has lived centuries without becoming attached to anyone for too long, can flit in and out of someone’s life like a dragonfly, but Geralt is the opposite. His trust, his _companionship_ , his loyalty is so hard to gain, and so permanent once that feat is managed, where Jaskier has always given his freely and taken it back with as much ease. Geralt has been forced to be a solitary creature, but it is not in his nature. Wolves pack bond; wolves mate for life. It is, Jaskier suspects, why he returns to Kaer Morhen every winter that he is able. While they must travel separately, hunt alone, at the core they are his pack, his family — and a wolf always needs to return to its den.

Jaskier, if he is a wolf, is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He dons his frills and his finery, plays the fool so well. It is what he likes, what suits him. He has never wanted all the trappings of power that come with what he is. A wolf in sheep’s clothing can circle the flock, hug the fringes, but can never get too close. A wolf in sheep’s clothing can never truly be a part of the crowd it infiltrates, lest the sheep see fangs and claws beneath his veneer of wool and softness. At his core, though, perhaps he is a wolf as well. Perhaps, like Geralt, he craves a true companion, but has simply written it off as an impossibility. 

It would make sense. It would explain why it was so _easy_ to fall into place at Geralt’s side, lock-step with his witcher for decades. It would explain why they have always gravitated together, even if they didn’t want to. They are the same, deep down, more than they realise.

Every wolf needs a pack.

“You are _mine_ ,” Jaskier says again, so close that their noses would brush if one of them only leaned in _just so_. “As long as you want to be, that is.”

“Yes,” Geralt growls. He does not hesitate, and that almost surprises Jaskier, but they have both been wanting this for so long that he supposes, really, it was inevitable. It was inevitable, just as it was inevitable for Jaskier to claim him, and just as it was inevitable for him to guide their lips together now. 

“And I’m yours, my darling witcher,” the bard whispers against his lips. 

“Mine,” Geralt repeats, clasping his hands together at the small of his bard’s back and pulling them flush together, chest against chest. 

“Geralt,” he whispers, unable to help himself. “Geralt, love, can I mark you? Proper, I mean — teeth in your neck, so everyone — _everyone_ knows that you are _mine_.”

The witcher rumbles in response, tilting his head, exposing his neck. Jaskier is fucking salivating, Gods, he can’t help it. This kind of trust is almost impossible to get from a regular human, let alone a fucking _witcher_. He feels high on it. 

He can’t resist pressing his face into Geralt’s pulse point, taking a deep breath in through his nose. His scent is intoxicating for a vampire — or maybe just for Jaskier, maybe it’s because it’s _Geralt_. Otherwise, witchers would be at a dreadful disadvantage to his own kind. 

“My witcher,” he murmurs against the junction of Geralt’s neck and shoulder. He licks a slow, wet stripe where he plans to bite, getting it ready for his fangs to pierce and _claim_. 

“Bite me, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, impatient and needy, and it’s so _much_ that Jaskier simply can’t hold back anymore. He is more vampire than man, in this moment.

So he bites.

Jaskier has bitten many people in his life. Rarely has he bitten to kill — his poor stomach would never be able to handle that much blood at once, and it would be such a _waste_ , not to mention the attention it would garner. He only kills when he has to, in self-defense or the defense of another. Most of the time, he bites lovers high on the throes of passion, giving them the most exquisite pleasure, and then making them forget the specifics with a hypnotic element to his voice couched in sweet words whispered against hot, sweaty skin. After all, they are giving him such a gift, should he not return the favour?

Biting people, Gods, it feels magnificent. He always savours the feeling, lets it warm him from deep within as he takes his fill of their lifeblood. He has had delicious lovers and orgasmic bites, but nothing, _nothing_ could ever compare to this. It is as if Geralt is the sun, and he has only ever seen a candle’s flame. 

He realises, through the haze of pleasure, what he’s just done. He has claimed Geralt in a very permanent way. When he’d said that the witcher was his, he’d _meant_ it. And he knows he should have asked first, should have had more of a discussion, but he hadn’t thought about it. All he could think about was Geralt, Geralt, _Geralt_. Mating bites are not common amongst his kind, but they are not entirely rare. 

That bite, those marks from Jaskier’s teeth will be on Geralt’s skin for the rest of his life. It’s another scar, like countless scars before it, but it’s so much _more_ than the others. Anyone with even the slightest ability to sense magic will be able to feel it, feel the way the two are connected. It’s binding and permanent.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier murmurs, pulling back to look Geralt in the eye after he’s finished. He feels sort of hazy, and he’s glad that Geralt is holding him up and the wall is holding Geralt, because his legs feel like they’re melting. 

“Don’t be,” rumbles the witcher. Slowly, he slides down, so they are sitting. Geralt sits on the floor and Jaskier sits in his lap, and the witcher’s arms do not leave his waist. 

Still, he needs to explain himself. He feels so warm, so euphoric, but the niggling guilt in the back of his mind is eating away at the floaty feeling. “Surely you must have felt it,” he says. “I _claimed_ you.”

“As you said you would,” says Geralt. Does he not understand?

“Permanently. Forever.”

At this, Geralt frowns, and Jaskier thinks he finally understands, is finally going to be upset with him, but—

“Is that… not what you wanted?”

The poor thing sounds so small, and it’s a terrible look on him. He thinks Jaskier _regrets_ this.

“No, dear heart,” he coos, “of course I wanted it. I just… didn’t expect to. Not this soon. Not without discussing it with you. If it’s something _you_ don’t want—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, and for once the bard silences for him. “You’ve already been marking me. I thought… when you said properly, I thought you meant _this_. I want this. Want _you_.”

It’s the most eloquent he’s ever been, Jaskier thinks — or maybe he’s biased, because the words are so sweet, are everything he’s wanted to hear. “Oh, my love,” he whispers, tears suddenly brimming in his cornflower blue eyes. “I’m so _glad_.”

They kiss again — how could they not? He’s sure that his lips still hold the sticky remnants of Geralt’s blood, sure that his mouth still tastes of copper and iron, but Geralt licks into it eagerly all the same. It’s thrilling. It’s beautiful. It’s _everything_.

But best of all, it is his.


End file.
